


The Hero

by ciannwn



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen, Soldiers, Thal-Kaled War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ciannwn/pseuds/ciannwn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The genesis of Nyder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Commander Nyder sat alone in the spartan little cell which was the privilege of high rank. A bed, a table, a chair, a locker for his few personal possessions and privacy for his off duty hours were the rewards for long and faithful service but these luxuries, the like of which had once seemed an impossible dream, had long since lost their attraction. He didn't enjoy the company of his colleagues any more than they enjoyed his and yet, although he was resigned to being essentially alone in life, his early years had left him with a legacy of feeling uneasy when he was physically isolated from the presence of others. The only thing in the room's favour was that it was the one place where he could revert to being something of his original self.

The cold and apparently soulless head of the Elite Security Division was not inhuman for although he'd forgotten what little he'd known of compassion or caring for others, he was still capable of emotion, albeit of a negative kind. The men he lived and worked with were hereditary Party Members who'd been born and bred to their positions and in their eyes he was nothing more than a jumped up Patrol Leader from the ranks. Their veiled hostility and contempt had never allowed him to forget that he was an outsider and the constant humiliations over the years had earned them his resentment and later, his own brand of retaliation once he'd been promoted. Davros's orders were now often embellished with petty and annoying additions of his own with the sole purpose of making life difficult for the men who'd rejected him and, while in his heart of hearts he knew that his only claim to authority with the words "Davros orders it," the truth didn't detract from his pleasure in wielding the Supreme Commander's power. He liked nothing better than to see the others defer to him and fear him even if it was only because defying him was to defy the wishes of Davros himself. Davros knew of his behaviour, of course, but whereas Nyder saw his master's tolerance of his spiteful actions as a special privilege to do what he liked within reason, the Supreme Commander viewed it as a convenient development of taking a man from the trenches in the first place. Nyder was a far better tool because of his attitude towards his fellow officers as he had no compunction against spying on them and reporting everything he learned.

His work, however, for all that it gave him moments of great satisfaction, could still bring occasions when he felt self-conscious and a little awkward. Having spent his first sixteen years ignorant of the fact that there were such things social graces, he'd found it difficult enough living up to the standards expected of a Security Private let alone anything else. And he'd been sixteen before Davros had thought it safe to manipulate events so that a loyal but still rather uncouth young N.C.O. could be picked out as promising officer material. Seventeen years later this credit to the Academy staff's painstaking effort was still having to think about what he said in case he slipped back into the vocabulary of the trenches, while there were innumerable times when he just stopped himself from reaching for a spoon instead of a knife and fork because the former was the only eating utensil in an 'other ranker's' kit - if he was lucky.

Nyder's success at turning himself into a polished facsimile of a Party Member owed a great deal to his once having been a self effacing individual who'd hated to be conspicuous. The colourless personalities who had blended into the mud and shell holes had sometimes been overlooked for special and, therefore, potentially lethal missions and Nyder had developed disappearing in crowds to a fine art even before he'd been old enough to kill Thals. Blending into the Elite background had proved impossible, though, because everyone knew of his origins and treated him accordingly. But being looked down on because of his birth was one thing and earning contempt through disgusting table manners was another so he'd always done his best to be unobtrusive in company and thereby avoid as many sneers and veiled insults as possible.

Promotion to Davros's aide and second in command where the everyday running of the Bunker Complex was concerned had given him the incentive to become a presence to be noticed - thus proving yet again that a nonentity in a position to wield power often reveals all kinds of unsavoury personality traits which no one suspected they had. Nothing pleased him more than seeing a Party born colleague come to grief and now that he was officially entitled to snoop and pry, he took a vicious satisfaction in making sure that his victims knew exactly who'd uncovered the activities which had led to their downfall. He'd become a man to be reckoned with and that he was fully aware of it was apparent in his air of supercilious arrogance, while he'd even contrived to inject a chilling and sinister quality into what had hitherto been a somewhat flat and expressionless voice. But there was one thing forbidden him and that was to flaunt his plebeian origins in public; after years of nervous tension in case he committed a faux pas, his secret dream was to tell everyone to stuff their prissy conventions and really rub and their noses in the fact that they were now having to take orders from the lowest of the low. This, however, would have been detrimental to his image - an image which was but a reflection of Davros's own status - and so he had to be very careful to behave correctly. Sprawling in a chair with one's tunic undone was an unforgivable breach of manners so anyone wishing to do this had to take himself off to where he couldn't be observed, and Nyder usually did wish to do this at the end of his duty periods. He hadn't left the battlefield unscathed and now that he was approaching middle age he tended to accumulate a variety of aches and twinges over the course of the day, none of which were relieved by having to sit at attention in the Senior Mess. It was only natural, then, that on the rare occasions when he was neither performing in his official capacity or ferreting something out for Davros, he thankfully retreated to his room where he could revert to the infinitely more comfortable, albeit slovenly, habits of the trenches.

Another advantage of privacy was that he didn't have to drink the synthetic wine which Party Members regarded as their special privilege - sweet, watery and with the chemical aftertaste of the Food Production laboratories. It was a poor substitute for liquid refreshment to anyone who'd learned to appreciate the rough, throat searing spirit issued to other ranks. Everyone suspected that he re-routed a small but steady supply of army rations for his own use, of course, but a man could get away with a multitude of minor indiscretions as long as nobody actually saw him commit them. And as Nyder was the officer to whom such indiscretions were reported to anyway, he was perfectly safe.

Had there been a casual observer, he or she might have regarded the slender, almost frail looking man lounging in comfortable disarray as being a far preferable companion to the stiffly formal Party Members in the mess but closer observation would have shattered their illusions. The dead eyes staring at the wall from behind rimless glasses were impossible to imagine as sparkling with humour while the set of his mouth promised little in the way of spontaneous laughter. He'd never been known to make a joke or come out with an amusing witticism; his conversation tended to be limited to approved opinions, although this was natural under the circumstances, while even the Elite Auxiliary girls who staffed the main recreation centre only vied for his attentions because it was prudent to do so. The general opinion was that he was a boring creep, both in bed and out of it, which just about summed up his social accomplishments in the politest possible way.

His eyes flickered into pleasurable anticipation as he poured himself another drink, an operation which would have allowed the hypothetical observer another glimpse into the Security Commander's personal world. His hands, which were always concealed by black leather gloves in public, were disfigured by those injuries which he had received during his last days in the trenches. And their condition hinted of the other scarring beneath the plain black uniform with its eye and a lightning flash, collar patches and Hero's Cross, First Class decoration. Yet for all that he bore unmistakable signs of having suffered a great deal, he was not a man to generate pity. His sallow, thin face, although still relatively young in years, had long since been erased of whatever he had known of youth and while there was nothing unusual about the way he looked, there was something repellent about the overall effect. His appearance was, therefore, admirably suited to his line of work but, like his aura of chilling soullessness, it had been acquired as part and parcel of his promotion. He'd become what he'd imagined himself to be and his long dead friends and companions of the old days would have been surprised and saddened by the change.


	2. The City

He was born in the League Of Kaled Mothers, Centre No 3, Dome Sector Two Eight, a spartan, cheerless barracks where genetically pure girls and women dedicated their fertile years to the future of the race. Within minutes of his arrival in the world he was taken to the nearest Guardians Of The Future home where he would spend his early childhood in the company of his peers. He inherited the name Nyder from the recently dead Patrol Leader who had fathered him and was allocated a number to distinguish him from all the other Nyders because it was a common surname. His personal name was bestowed because it was still the custom for people to have one but it was superfluous for all practical purposes because he'd never be addressed by it.

He learned a great deal in his first eight years - how to obey rules and regulations without question, bear pain and discomfort without complaint, hate the Thals because they had been trying to exterminate the Kaleds for centuries (although he was never told why), despise the Mutos who lived in the Wastelands because they were sub human degenerates and, most important as far his he was concerned, how to merge quietly into the crowd so that he was not unduly conspicuous. It was a hard, deprived childhood but he didn't know that - he had no concept of any other state by which to make a comparison.

On their eighth birthdays the children were scanned for their genetic worth and separated into categories accordingly. All were physically perfect otherwise they would have been disposed of at birth but the men who'd fathered them had been exposed to the contamination of the Wastelands and many of their offspring had suspect genes which they could not be allowed to pass on. Girl's fit for breeding were sent to the League Of Future Mothers while their less valued sisters were sterilised and transferred to the Victory Through Labour movement where they would be trained to support the war effort in the factories; when they were older they would be screened again and the prettier ones enrolled in the Army Auxiliary Corps where they would entertain the heroes in the Army Leave Sector. All boys went into the Youth Corps because a man could fight even if he could not breed; Nyder, along with the majority of his year group, was classified as a reject before being handed over to the men whose job it was to train him to kill. He was mortified at the knowledge that he was little better than a Muto, but with help from the Youth Leaders he began to see his future in the lines as a personal vendetta against the enemy which was the direct cause of his being contaminated.

He learned a lot more in the next six years - how to handle everything from guns to crossbows and spears because neither side had enough modern weapons to go round after centuries of total war; how to behave when faced with snipers, gas, and heavy artillery and how to function on the minimum of food and sleep. He also perfected the technique of remaining quietly in the background, content to leave general popularity to the brash extroverts who didn't mind drawing attention to themselves.

The Corps had yet to see a Thal but every boy was dedicated to the task of wiping the last man, woman and child of that race from the face of Skaro. The Mutos didn't merit such fanatical devotion to their ultimate extermination for their ancestors had been Kaleds; the pure breeds regarded these abominations with revulsion but their hatred was reserved for the enemy which had caused genetic defects in the race so that the initial results had had to be sent to the Wastelands. Every new born child which had to be eliminated as sub human was a further justification for cleaning the planet of Thals and Nyder, whilst having only the vaguest idea of what a new-born baby was, vowed to avenge the blood of innocents as well as his own humiliation as soon as he was old enough to do his duty.

Life was bleak, cheerless and lacking in all but the basic necessities but even these were not always available. Sometimes the food rations were cut, the water supply system frequently broke down and it was not unknown for the air purification plant to malfunction so that everyone in the Dome half suffocated in the foul atmosphere. Such setbacks, when occurring singly, were regarded as normal but whenever several things went wrong simultaneously so that the people began to resent the Scientific Elite having priority in everything, they were given a boost to their morale. Davros spoke to them.

The Chief Scientist of the Elite lived and worked in an underground complex some distance away from the City and his communications were via the televid screens in the public assembly areas. A hideously mutilated cripple, he addressed the people from his mobile console, his harsh electronic voice assuring them that the Kaled race would go on to victory; it was therefore regrettable but necessary that the Elite had everything they required if they were to devise the ultimate weapon which would bring peace. The people's sacrifices would not be in vain and in the meantime they would be rewarded with a 'Peoples' Plaque' which would be set up in the Hall Of Culture And Achievement to remind future generations of what their ancestors had suffered.

Davros never failed to fire them with enthusiasm for sacrifice and suffering because nobody amongst the Kaleds had suffered more than he. Ten years before Nyder was born, his laboratory had been the target of a Thal missile and yet he'd refused to die despite appalling injuries which left him a travesty of a human being. Everyone was invariably inspired to greater efforts when they were reminded that they had such an example to follow and they were proud to think that their descendants would honour their memory even though a place in history did nothing to improve the quality of life in the present.

The plaque was presented shortly before Nyder was transferred to the front lines so he was able to participate in the celebration rally which followed. It was an uplifting experience with parades, speeches and assurances that the Kaleds would eventually win because they were the Supreme Race and the rightful masters of Skaro. The people responded with hysterical enthusiasm and then dispersed to their sector barracks to celebrate in style on extra rations. Nyder was bewildered by all the gaiety and merry making going on around him because he was unused to such frivolity but he was expected to enjoy himself on such a great occasion and so he did his best.

The last days of the Youth Corps were devoted to practical experience. Both sides took prisoners - the Thals used them as cheap, expendable labour but the Kaled policy was to exterminate them in a constructive manner. Prisoners were far from plentiful and were therefore kept alive with a minimum of resources expended upon them; they were collected over a period of a year and their numbers augmented by Mutos, the criminal element from the City and men on active service who had betrayed their race by disobeying orders, running away from battle or just going insane from the conditions outside. There were one hundred and fifty Youth Corps graduates in Nyder's year group and nearly four hundred 'personal instructors' as the prison camp inmates were euphemistically referred to. The Corps, under the supervision of experienced leaders, herded the surplus into a special compound and then threw hand grenades at them. The carnage was sickening, as it was meant to be. The boys had seen their inferiors slaughtered in training films but these could never convey the reality which often came as something of a shock to the more sensitive. Nyder was disgusted with himself for being less prepared for things than he'd imagined; the sight was not much different from films but the smell of death was enough to turn his stomach. The worst part of the exercise was going back into the compound to finish off anyone who might still be alive; nobody expected any survivors considering the method of execution but it was felt that sending the boys into the indescribably bloody mess was an invaluable lesson. Some were bound to be a little squeamish at first so far better now than on the battlefield. Nyder gritted his teeth because he had no desire to make himself conspicuous by throwing up but he didn't fare so well on the next phase of the operation when, a week later, he disgraced himself when the group went back into the compound to clean up the site up. He was assured that a great many men felt that way at first but they soon got used to such things after the initial reaction and he was comforted by the fact, seeing as he would be coming across a lot of remains in varying stages of decomposition when he was an active service.

The day before the passing out ceremony each boy was given a knife with his Personnel Number engraved on the handle and an enemy of the Kaleds to try it out on, the exercise being deemed necessary because it was known that killing one's first man face to face was generally harder than acting as a member of a group eliminating another at a distance. Nyder didn't think that anything could possibly be worse than shovelling up stinking and mostly unidentifiable bits and pieces but when he found himself at looking at a Thal only a few years older than himself he momentarily wavered at the task confronting him. It would have been easy if the man had glared fanatical hatred at him but the pathetic, half starved creature merely gazed blankly at his executioner with haunted, hopeless eyes. Nyder glanced round, saw that most of his companions had already started and hurriedly waded in himself before the Youth Leaders noticed him. He was feeling a little shaky when he handed the knife back but that was nothing to how he'd been after the first exercise so, on the whole, he was rather pleased with himself.

The knives were returned during the passing out parade which took place in the main Assembly Area and was shown on televid around the Dome. The City Administrators turned out with their wives and families as they did every year and if the adults thought that the number of 'other rankers' had decreased over the past decade their expressions masked their misgivings. There were the usual speeches culminating in the Oath Of Allegiance where each boy dedicated himself to the Kaled cause and then the knives were returned to them as a symbol of their noble destiny to fight and die gloriously for truth, justice and peace. Nyder, like most of the others, ran a finger over the notch newly carved in the handle to remind himself that he'd already personally exterminated one obstacle in the path to victory but when he thought of the emaciated wretch he'd killed, he was not entirely convinced that he'd contributed much to the war effort as yet.

The rest of the day was taken up with the issue of uniforms and equipment, final briefing and a special celebration for the Year Group members. The carefully supervised jollity began at the evening meal with extra rations and enough diluted spirit to keep everyone cheerful without their being incapacitated for the morning. Uplifting songs were sung and the Youth Leaders fanned their charges' enthusiasm for the victory which would surely come now that these dedicated young men were ready to go out and win it. The dedicated young men themselves felt important and eager to start their mission; in fact, the majority felt anything but fear of what would be waiting for them outside - which was exactly the intention.

Nyder, who was never at his best when he was supposed to be enjoying himself, withdrew into his own thoughts while looking as if he were participating in the fun. Despite his limited imagination he occasionally indulged in bouts of speculation and he idly wondered what everyone else in the City was doing while he was celebrating the greatest event of his life. It was strange to think that the people who'd watched the Allegiance Ceremony were facing another day just like the last while everything was about to change so dramatically for him but, for all that he knew he was going to face hardship and perhaps even death, he wouldn't have changed his destiny even if he could.  
The Youth Leaders allowed their charges to stay up a little past their usual retiring hour as a special concession and the boys revelled in this first experience of their new status as young adults. They returned to their dormitories, full of what they were going to achieve now that they were no longer children and, due to the thoroughness of their indoctrination, many continued to be convinced that they had a future when they were finally allowed to think their own thoughts after lights out. Others, including Nyder, weren't quite so sure; he knew that men were killed in the Wastelands and being of a practical turn of mind he was aware that he might well be one of the casualties. But it was an abstract concept as yet and so, even though the possibility made him a little nervous if he thought about it for too long, he couldn't really believe that death could actually happen to him. Far more unnerving was the prospect of the upheaval which he had to face in the morning. He knew the City and his companions in the Corps and being forced to readjust to new surroundings and faces scared him more than anything else that might be outside.

He slept fitfully that night but was too keyed up to be tired once the morning got underway. His new uniform was stiff and scratchy and the boots threatened to rub his feet raw within hours but he was long resigned to such discomforts and concentrated his mind on ensuring that that he was perfectly turned out for Parade and Inspection. Not only would it be a terrible humiliation to be bawled out today of all days but the attention to routine detail helped to steady his stomach which was threatening to tie itself into knots. He knew that he wasn't the only one to be nervous as he could see it in other faces but knowing that he wasn't alone didn't help very much. By the time the formalities were over and he sat down to breakfast he was in such a state that every mouthful nearly choked him although he forced it down all the same. His training had taught him never to refuse food when it was available because the next meal didn't always come when expected.

Less than an hour later, he and his section were lined up in front of the entrance to one of the larger platform lifts, awaiting their turn to be taken up to the surface. His hands were sweating and he surreptitiously wiped them on his uniform as the doors slid open and the order was given for the next group to take their places. He knew what outside ought to be like from the films and the simulated exterior sector where he had spent weeks on end while training but he was now about to experience the reality and he couldn't help being apprehensive about it.

He mentally ran through what he could expect a few seconds from now; heat because it was summer and the sickly sweet smell of the execution compound due to the temperature. He was right on both counts but the satisfaction of being so was far outweighed by the effects of the anticipated aroma as he'd forgotten just how nauseating it was. He, therefore, marched off to glory, far too concerned with keeping his breakfast down to be overwhelmed by either wide open spaces or elation at having set out to fulfil his noble purpose in life.


	3. The Wastelands

The first thing he learned was that it was very difficult to die gloriously in a world of mud, barbed wire and shell holes filled with scum covered water; a man at could die with no trouble at all but his sacrifice was more likely to be messy, painful and very unpleasant rather than something which could be viewed with maudlin sentiment. Many of a Nyder's Year Group were killed in their first weeks in the front line but none of them looked or sounded particularly pleased to have given their lives for a worthy cause. Five were blown to bits by a Thal shell; another panicked at the onset of a gas attack - he drowned in the fluid which accumulated in his lungs; one of Nyder's close friends trod on an anti-personnel mine and the Patrol Leader shot what was left of him because it was pointless doing anything else; seven were skewered by quarrels; one was disembowelled by a spear and another six were listed as missing, presumed dead. Nyder, who had once dreamed of doing something noble and heroic, decided that others were welcome to the glory and did what he could to stay alive. Thanks to caution and a great deal of luck he was able to spend his fifteenth birthday in a stinking dug-out, picking lice out of his tunic.

He passed his first to leave in an Army Youth Hostel along with the other survivors of his Year Group. Boys below the age of sixteen, although classed as men when it came to fighting, were regarded as being too young and innocent to be exposed to the recreational facilities of the Leave Sector so they were herded together and organised into following improving pursuits. The only thing in its favour as far as Nyder was concerned was that nobody was trying to kill him. He resented the patronising attitude of the Youth Leaders and felt the first stirrings of cynicism towards a system which kept the boys who had experienced the truth of outside away from those who were being brainwashed into believing that the only worthwhile thing in life was to be a target for Thal guns. In fact, his feelings on the matter were so intense that he daydreamed of upsetting the status quo by telling the Youth Corps what it was really like out there but he was never tempted to actually try it because that would have made him conspicuous with a vengeance.

He returned to the battlefield as winter set in and spent the next four months at a remote outpost in the Western Sector where he was in more danger of dying from exposure and starvation than the enemy. Supplies, which were never plentiful at best, reached an all time low and much of what was meant for the outer lines was diverted to innumerable other destinations en route. Nyder, who had hitherto felt only disgust for the Mutos who survived by scavenging and those of his own kind who emulated them, soon became adept at the game out of necessity. He and his best friend of the moment, a hard-bitten, cynical nineteen year old veteran by the name of Hargel, specialised in letting the Mutos do the work for them before killing them for their booty. Nobody gave a damn whether the food originated with the Thals or with the Kaleds and the strips of tough, leathery dried meat which the Mutos supplied themselves were especially prized. There were still a few examples of Skaran wildlife around so they preferred to assume that they were the source rather than contemplate other, more dubious origins.

Bitterness against Davros and the Scientific Elite commandeering the best of everything rose in proportion to the worsening conditions. Nyder, still trying to hang on to his idealism out of stubborn desperation, reminded his companions that the Chief Scientist was trying to devise a weapon to end the war but was only laughed at for his naivety.

"The Elite don't want to end this stinking war," Hargel theorised. "The bastards would be out of a job then, wouldn't they?"

The majority agreed with him as it was generally believed by the older men that the Elite wanted to keep the war going. Their privileges were safe while the Citizen Classes were fighting for Kaled survival but once the Thals were exterminated there would be nothing to stop them from claiming what they were entitled to. Hargel, like the others, had limited imagination when it came to privileges; as far as he was concerned they could stop at warm clothing, somewhere dry to sleep at night, enough food for him to gorge himself silly, unlimited spirit so that he would never need to be sober again and a woman of his own instead of whoever was available on his all too infrequent visits to the Leave Sector. Nyder wholeheartedly agreed on the food and shelter aspects but wasn't sure about the woman; he expected that he'd want one of his own once he'd experienced what was one of the main topics of conversation among his older companions but until then it was just an abstract concept.

Winter gradually gave way to a wet, cold spring during which the Thals attempted to break through the lines of the Western Sector. They were driven back but Hargel was one of the many Kaleds killed in the fighting. Nyder cried for his friend while thanking providence that it hadn't been his own turn to die. Then he took Hargel's waterproof cape because his friend didn't need it any more and it was marginally less ragged than his own.

He'd been fortunate to escape relatively unscathed up until now but a few days later his worst fear was nearly realised. His luck held out as far as he escaped death but a rather messy flesh wound from a Thal arrow meant that he could be patched up and sent back outside again. That, according to popular opinion, was bad luck because those who were too crippled to fight were transferred to duties behind the lines to live out their lives in relative comfort. He thoroughly enjoyed his stay in the army hospital where it was warm, dry and luxurious after a winter in the trenches. The food was no better than standard rations the but there was enough of it for once and it had been a long time since he'd known what it was like to have three meals a day. The news that he'd been promoted to Private First Class, was no compensation for being passed fit for duty but he made sure he hid his lack of enthusiasm because it was a treasonable attitude.

He was all set to return to the Wastelands when someone in Personnel decided that he might as well have his leave now seeing as he was practically on the premises. The few days grace cheered him up no end, especially now that having reached the age of sixteen, he was classed as a full adult so would not have to enjoy himself under the watchful eyes of Youth Leaders. But there was sadness too because he had once hoped to go on leave with Hargel and the prospect of doing everything they had talked about reminded him that his friend was dead and forgotten as far as most people were concerned.

He found the Leave Sector somewhat intimidating at first and wandered around feeling lost and unsure of himself. Everything he could possibly want to know had been imparted to him by the Personnel Officer who had checked him in but the thought of actually taking advantage of the facilities made him cringe with embarrassment. He was, therefore, infinitely relieved when he ran into a trio from his Year Group; he had never cared for these individuals much because they were the kind of brash extroverts who irritated him but for once he was glad to tag along. Deep down he knew that they were as lost and bewildered as he was but there was bravado in numbers and the four of them egged each other on to visit one of the Army Auxiliary Centres.

Nyder's choice was a quietly attractive girl of his own age because she didn't seem quite as intimidating as her prettier and more sophisticated looking sisters. It was a decision which was to have far reaching consequences because she was kind, gentle and lacking the experience to wonder if her mission in life - to reward the men for their heroism and keep their morale high - was really as glorious as she had been told. Her sincere belief in what she was doing gave her the air of someone who cared about her temporary lovers as people and Nyder, being lonely and miserable at an impressionable age, was affected by the experience in a way which was strange and incomprehensible to him. To his infinite relief, she wasn't one of the really popular girls who was always in demand and so he was able to requisition her in advance and spend the greater part of the next three days with her, his pleasure in her company marred only by the worry that someone would pull rank on him and take her for himself.

He returned to his section to spend the next few weeks in an emotional upheaval which he was incapable of understanding, although time and the never ending struggle to survive eventually took the edge off his unhappiness. But he still thought of her when he'd nothing better to do and he fantasised about seeing her again long after he'd forgotten what she looked like. He never told anyone else about the after effects of his leave because he was convinced that nobody could possibly understand but he could now appreciate why his comrades included women as an enviable privilege of the Elite and his own bitterness against the system grew.

The year dragged on into a hot, dry summer during which both sides suffered from dust, thirst and a plague of insects which were attracted as much to the perspiration of the living as the stinking, swollen remains of the dead. Nyder, who had thought that he was more or less inured to the horrors of the battlefield, was revolted to the point of hysteria when he accidentally disturbed a blue-green mound of the creatures and was immediately enveloped by them in preference to the carrion which they had been feeding on. The thought of something like that happening again made patrols a greater nightmare than ever and he was on the verge of wondering if he could take much more when he succumbed to the sickness which was sweeping through the lines. He came closer to dying from disease than anything else up until then but he pulled through and revelled in being back at the hospital for all that it was overcrowded and nowhere near as comfortable as before. There was no leave in the offing this time because there was a grave shortage of men outside but he was rewarded for his valour and self sacrifice with promotion to Patrol Leader. He knew as well as anyone that he had done nothing whatsoever to merit such rapid advancement but there weren't enough NCO's after the epidemic and so anyone who'd survived for a couple of years outside was regarded as promising material.

Conditions were marginally better when he returned to duty because the heat wave had broken and the rain, although a misery in itself, had dispersed the insects. The Wastelands soon returned to being a sea of mud and overflowing shell holes and everyone cursed the over abundance of water as vehemently as they had the lack of it. The high ranking officers back at HQ jokingly remarked that there was no pleasing the men and broke out a few bottles of wine to celebrate the birth of Under General Ravon's son. The boy had a lot to live up to coming from a line of ancestors of whom none had been below the rank of Battlegroup Commander but the proud father had every confidence that his offspring would be a credit to the family.

Autumn arrived with its acrid yellow mists and the Kaled leaders decided that it was about time they had another crack at breaking through the Thal lines. Getting there was little problem despite the rugged hills between the two cities; for all that the central pass was guarded by a Thal Blockhouse on the Eastern side and the Kaled equivalent on the Western, there just weren't enough men available for either race to keep the area adequately defended. The Thal spring offensive had been accomplished by their force coming over the hills - the Kaleds would get there by the longer but far easier route around them. There was little danger of being wiped out by Thal artillery because the enemy only had three long range guns now and they were currently in the Eastern sector; they were feeble affairs compared to the giants of the old days so using them against the invading army would necessitate their being moved to a new position, a daunting and time consuming task when they had to be hauled along by work parties of prisoners and Thal citizens. It was unlikely that they'd even make the attempt as, according to official optimism, the Kaleds would be well dug in before the guns could be used against them.

Nyder, who'd spent most of his working hours on patrol since his promotion, accepted yet another one as his personal fate and slunk around the foothills with his group in search of any Thals who might be taking note of the sad state of the Kaled army. He had no idea that the immediate area had once been regarded as a scene of outstanding natural beauty and the news would have meant nothing to him even if he'd been informed of the fact. The streams and waterfalls which had once lured his ancestors out on walks and picnics were simply ice cold obstacles to be crossed with considerable risk due to the slippery rocks and drops deep enough to break a man's neck if he went over them.

They came face to face with a Thal patrol with very little warning but it was enough to give them the edge. Nyder's side was better armed too, boasting three blasters and crossbows to the Thals' two rifles and spears. The only real problem was one of the Thal riflemen diving for cover behind a high rock but Nyder solved this by climbing to higher ground and throwing a phosphorus grenade over the top.

The Thal staggered out in a halo of fire and threw himself into a pool beneath Nyder's position. Nyder watched him in horrified fascination as he alternated between the choices of drowning or bursting into flames again as he came up for air. There was something odd about the man, something different. The shrieks of agony could have belonged to a boy whose voice had yet to break but the figure blackening beneath the charred remains of battle dress had once been softer and more rounded than any boy's.

It took all Nyder's self control to shoot the tortured thing below him because he was shaking with reaction at what he was seeing. He was totally bewildered as to why he should be so upset at having killed a Thal girl when he had vowed to exterminate all Thals whatever their age or sex. Theoretically it made no difference how and when and if the enemy was now reduced to sending their women out to fight it could only mean that the time of victory was near. But thinking of waging war against women as an abstract concept hadn't prepared him for the reality and despite his telling himself there was no comparison between the girl he'd known in the City and the Thal female, he was unable to differentiate between them on an emotional level.

He knew then, without any shadow of doubt, that he'd had enough of the war and all it stood for. He didn't give a damn about the Kaled cause any more and was fighting only out of a personal desire to stay alive; he, therefore, saw no reason to hang around where the odds were against his achieving his objective. He knew that he was contemplating a treasonable act but had no feelings of shame or guilt about it because, as far as he was concerned he, Hargel and generations of others had been betrayed by the Elite and if the hierarchy wanted the Thals exterminated they could damn well do it themselves from now on. He was having nothing more to do with the rotten business.

Resolving to desert was one thing but accomplishing it was going to be another. The main problem was where he would go and what could be waiting for him if he succeeded in getting there. All he or anyone of his acquaintance knew was that the war was now confined to a few square miles of the planet and the rest of Skaro was out side the battle zone, which theoretically gave him an unlimited choice of destinations and perhaps even unlimited choices for the future. Of course the entire planet could be contaminated and full of Mutos but what if some of the more imaginative speculations he'd heard what true? He found it difficult to believe that there could be other people elsewhere but his pitifully rudimentary education had indicated that Skaro was a big place so it wasn't necessarily impossible. He also found it hard to grasp the idea of a city which wasn't at war and, like all the others, envisaged it's society as one in which Elite privileges were available to everyone but as that was all he asked for out of life, he felt no need to elaborate on his fantasies. He wouldn't be the first to go in search of this dream and he had few illusions that he'd find it, but if he died looking he would at least have died for himself and not for someone else.

He began to make what plans he could; he was armed and had three days emergency rations so all he had to do was slip away without being seen. This was easier said than done, however, and he could hardly believe his good fortune when his division was allocated the outskirts of a ruined village when the army made camp that night. He needed only to wait for the inevitable mist to roll up and give him extra cover for his escape, but his elation at everything appearing to be so easy was tempered by the agony of trying to act normally in front of his companions. It seemed impossible that he could hide his keyed up state from people who knew him well because everything he said sounded artificial to his own ears and now that he was consciously trying to behave in his usual manner, every action felt awkward and over stressed. But nobody gave any indication of noticing anything unusual and he was fairly confident that he hadn't given himself away when, at long last, he was able to plead tiredness and withdraw from the group without being the first to do so.

He curled up in the shelter afforded by a pile of rubble and tried to rest but he was far too agitated to relax. The hours crawled by and he was beginning to think that the mist would never make its appearance when he was enveloped by a damp, unpleasant smelling chill. He waited a few minutes longer then crept out into the night, his training and experience enabling him to move as silently as a shadow. He made it as far as the fragment of standing wall he'd picked out as cover earlier on and crouched there listening for any indication that he'd been heard by a sentry but everything was as quiet as if he were the only living thing in the world. He prepared to move on and then, suddenly, he was frozen to the spot, petrified by the enormity of what he was attempting - once he left the army he would be on his own, totally and forever, because there could be no coming back. He hadn't experienced being alone before and the thought that he might never see another person again terrified him more than the prospect of facing anything which the Thals could throw at him.

He huddled up against the crumbling bricks, trying to will himself to go on while he had the chance but it was a hopeless battle and he knew it long before he slumped to the ground and hid his face in his hands in defeat. He now knew that he was going to die out there in the Wastelands - tomorrow, next week, next year, the time was immaterial because his destiny was inevitable and all he could do was wait until it was his turn.

He stopped wondering when and wondered how instead while praying to fate that it would be over quickly. He had seen men die in every way imaginable and he shivered as his mind persisted in remembering the worst of the terrible things he'd witnessed during the past two years. He fought to recall the girl in the City as a means of cancelling out the images and, for a moment, he succeeded. Then she became enveloped in flames and turned into the Thal female and he burst into tears of despair and hopelessness. Nobody came to see what was wrong or offer him comfort as temporary breakdowns of this nature were too common an occurrence for anyone to take any notice, especially when the majority had experienced such fits themselves.

He was so wrapped up in his misery that he failed to hear anything strange until voices all around alerted him to the fact that something was out there. He screwed his eyes up in an effort to catch a glimpse of it in the lesser darkness of first dawn but the mist which he'd so eagerly awaited just a short while before was now working against him. The rumbling, clanking, squealing sounds grew louder every second and he huddled closer to the wall, trembling with terror at the unknown.

The two tanks were very old, very battered and hanging together by a miracle, but to a force of less than five hundred they were formidable in the extreme. Both sides had had such things a few generations ago but the vehicles had become obsolete through the shortage of raw materials with which to build them so the Thals' idea of cannibalising the rusting hulks in their sector proved to be a brilliant strategy. Not only had the Kaleds forgotten even the basics of tank warfare but they now had little with which to make more than a token amount of damage.

The Kaleds fought bravely but it was a futile waste of life as they were pitting hand grenades, blasters and crossbows against machine guns and shells. The carnage was as dreadful as it was predictable and the last patches of mist rolled away to the screams of the dying and those unfortunate to be in the way as the tanks rolled inexorably forward, flattening and crushing everything in their path. There was nothing for it but to retreat and the strategic withdrawal to the foothills soon became a mad scramble for shelter. Ignorance of the tanks' capabilities over rough terrain made the pursuing vehicles seem like something out of a nightmare which nothing could stop as they forged over hummocks and gullies or smashed their way through barriers of thorny scrub which could tear an unprotected man to shreds.

Nyder tripped and fell but managed to roll into a dip and huddle behind a heap of boulders before the nearest tank squealed its way to where he'd been only seconds before. A red smeared track sent a shower of stones and earth down to his position and he closed his eyes and waited in an agony of apprehension for the hail of bullets which would finish him off. But the tank rumbled on past only to come to a shuddering halt a few feet away. There was a succession of spasmodic rattles and grinding noises as if the driver were trying to restart it but nothing happened and Nyder realised that it must have broken down. With extreme caution he inched his way backwards and around it, taking advantage of every bit of cover available. It was a nerve wracking journey but he made it in the end and hurried as fast as he could in the direction of his retreating comrades.

He caught up with his commanding officer and a motley assortment of other ranks only to regret his efforts as the second tank turned to head them off. Under General Ravon gave the order to climb up into the rocks and they began the tricky ascent while shells exploded around them, ripping great chunks away from the hillside.

Nyder felt the ground sliding from under his feet and frantically scrambled for a hand hold, his fingers leaving bloody smears on the stones as he slid down the slope he'd been labouring to climb. His descent was halted by a boulder and he got to his knees, bruised and panting with fear and breathlessness, in readiness to try again. The tank was directly below and a little to his left now and with sheer terror bordering on hysteria, he saw the turret turn to swing the cannon in his direction. Hardly realising what he was doing, he pulled the pin out of a grenade and threw it in a futile gesture of sheer panic before launching himself at the slope with the vague intention of clawing his way up. He, therefore, missed seeing the million to one chance result of his action as the grenade went straight down the barrel of the cannon and the last thing he knew was something hitting him a tremendous blow as the tank exploded to send him flying with the shock of the blast.

Ravon rounded up what was left of his army and turned his attention to the other tank which was still sitting when Nyder had left it. Lacking enough men and ammunition to have any hope of carrying out his mission, his only chance of salvaging his career was to destroy the vehicle or at least damage it so severely that it couldn't be used again. It wouldn't be easy because the crew would still have the tank's armaments at their disposal but it was now a stationary target so it had to be possible to do something. Grenades rolled underneath the body would cause far greater damage in a confined space and burning scrub bushes would not only provide a smoke screen but would probably choke the bastards inside into the bargain. He briefed his men on the plan of attack and rounded things off with a reminder that what one Patrol Leader had accomplished alone could certainly be repeated by an army of three hundred and nineteen - after all, what was the point of having a hero from the ranks if he didn't make use of him?

The men did their best to look inspired by their comrade's deeds while cursing him under their breath because they neither needed nor wanted heroes. It was all right for the Citizens who had nothing to do other than revere them but they, themselves, were expected to emulate them and risk their already precarious necks in the process. Still, there was one consolation - if Nyder had survived, he would be given every opportunity to perform further inspiring deeds because the chief duty of heroes was to live up to their reputations.


	4. The Bunker

Nyder half awoke to darkness on several occasions but his mind it was too dulled by drugs for him to realise that his eyes had been damaged in the searing heat and dust generated by the tank's exploding. His inability to register anything spared him the worry of whether his blindness was permanent but on the negative side he remained unaware that not only was he a hero but that his courage had already been rewarded in part. The moment he'd been passed strong enough to be moved from the hospital, he'd been transferred to the Bunker where Davros had his laboratories so that he could be given the best treatment that Kaled science could offer. Then, once he'd recovered from his injuries, he'd be enlisted in the Security Division where he would spend the rest of his useful life in relative safety. His situation was unusual but not without precedent as the lower ranks of the Division were always composed of experienced men from the lines. The odds against a particular individual being selected were so high that only the incurable optimists regarded transfer as a definite possibility, but this was simply due to the fact that a Security man had a far longer life expectancy than anyone outside so vacancies were few and far between.

What did make Nyder more unusual than most was his being chosen despite the fact that he was badly injured and needed a great deal of care and attention before he'd be fit enough to do anything useful. But a hero deserved special privileges and there was a precedent in this respect too; only the year before, a Private barely out of the Youth Corps had been rewarded for valour in the same way, but unfortunately he hadn't had much chance to enjoy his new status as he'd died from his wounds despite everything that Davros and his team had done to save him. His untimely end had come as quite a surprise to the Army Medical personnel who had tended him first because the boy certainly hadn't been at death's door when he'd left the hospital. But, as the Chief Surgeon had reminded everyone, any blow to the head hard enough to fracture the skull could cause all kinds of complications so that it was presumptuous of any one to regard such a patient's recovery as being a foregone conclusion.

Nyder slept on, mercifully unaware that his own recovery wasn't regarded as a foregone conclusion either.

\------

Davros monitored the delicate operation on a viewing screen in the observation room overlooking the laboratory cum theatre. On an intellectual level he was satisfied with the way things were going but the spasmodic twitching of his clawlike hand betrayed the fact that underneath the veneer of scientific detachment he was seething with frustration at having to rely on others to do what he was no longer capable of doing himself.

The will to live against all odds had won him the life he'd so desperately craved but he'd had to pay a terrible price for his survival. Boundless creative energy was now confined in a physically helpless shell and everything he planned, researched or designed had to be realised through the co-operation of those who could be persuaded to function as extensions of himself. And not everyone could be persuaded by any means. The popular respect and loyalty he commanded depended on his not overstepping the bounds of convention and morality which, in men such as Chief Counsellor Mogran, were very narrow indeed. In fact, much of what the Scientific Elite produced in the way of new ideas was solely to disguise the true nature of its research as Mogran's sensibilities were easily outraged and he had the power to make progress difficult, if not impossible, for those in the Bunker by withholding essential supplies.

Fortunately, from Davros's point of view, the individual's personal code of ethics was not always as rigidly defined as that of public opinion and over the years he'd succeeded in weeding out those who opposed his revolutionary visions from his staff. However, even the useful tools at his disposal had their limits when it came to application because their willingness to serve depended on their not being asked to do more than they believed was good for the future of the Kaled race.

Davros's own ideas of what was good for the race were moulded by the bitterness and sense of inferiority conferred by his being genetically suspect. Barred from perpetuating himself through descendents, he had yet been expected to dedicate himself to a future in which he had no part and resentment, combined with self loathing at being but one step up from the Mutos he'd been taught to despise, had resulted in a dangerous mental and emotional instability. His dreadful injuries at the indirect hands of the Thals had tipped him over the edge of sanity and the travel machine which kept him alive with its support systems had inspired him to direct the salvation of the race towards a new goal. Controlled mutation would give him a stake in the future as the Kaleds would be recreated in his own image and, because it was a plausible solution to the problem of a constantly dwindling supply of pure breeding stock, he'd been able to persuade the Scientific Elite into allowing his line of research.

He'd been content with this state of affairs at first as he'd had other, personal goals to work for. He'd needed to prove, both to himself and others, that genetic inferiority could be compensated for by superior ability and nothing short of the position of Supreme Commander could satisfy his hunger for respect and adulation. It had taken him years of hard work to realise his ambition,only to find that what had seemed so attractive before he had it was relatively trivial compared to what he still didn't have. He'd reached the top of what was only a very small heap of a few thousand people and even when the war was won, his descendents by proxy would inherit nothing more than a devastated planet. It was known that there were other worlds from pre-war records and, with his own being too small to contain his ambition, he'd turned his visions of the future to the stars.

He would rule the universe through his creations, a dream which, on the surface, was attractive to the Kaleds who believed themselves to be of superior stock to the Thals who had survived and the other races of Skaro who had not. But the Kaleds' value was diminished in Davros' eyes by their having retained many of the inferior traits which had marked non-Kaleds as being lower on the scale of evolution. His descendants would be a true Master Race, unflawed by sentimental weakness which might cause them to flinch from the harshest of their duties to ensure their rightful place in the natural order. And it was these same weaknesses which had hampered his research because those of his staff who elevated their failings into so-called moral values would not be prepared to let him eradicate such cherished misconceptions from their successors.

This state of affairs had held him back at every turn and had he not had the staunch support of Genetics Researcher Greber, he could have achieved nothing beyond that sanctioned by public approval. Greber had been an ally beyond price; a genius in his own field, a fanatic in his vision of ultimate Kaled supremacy and possessing a certain weakness of character which made him susceptible to moulding by an invincible and inflexible will. Another genetic reject, he had easily been tempted into sharing Davros' dream and had spent the greater part of his useful life working as his master had directed. Now that life was drawing to an end through a physical defect inherited from a contaminated ancestor and Davros was again faced with his own helplessness. The genetics programme itself was safe; nobody else knew that Davros had everything planned to towards a specific goal so his team would follow his directions in what they thought was a new line of research without questioning whatever he would tell them it was for. But he still had enemies and needed a devoted supporter to aid him in dealing with them. There was no really suitable candidate in the Bunker, let alone one with Greber's capabilities, but with the genetics programme completed, such a replacement was no longer necessary. All Davros needed was a man to carry out Greber's other function of gathering information as to who was loyal or otherwise to Davros.

He'd, therefore, decided to take someone from the ranks and mould him into what he required; a policy which had the advantage of any changes in personality going unnoticed. The candidate would be isolated from people he had known before whereas the inhabitants of the Bunker would be presented with a stranger who, as far as they knew, had always been what he seemed. 

Unfortunately, the right sort of candidate was difficult to find. He had to be a hero to make his transfer credible and, even more to the point, he had to have head injuries so that there would be no suspicions raised by surgery to the brain.

The first attempt had been a disaster due to theory proving inadequate without practical research beforehand. It had been a setback but one which couldn't be helped because Davros had been unable to requisition anyone, even a prisoner, for experimental purposes without others asking questions. The original idea had been to eradicate all emotion from the subject with the object of creating a servant of unquestioning obedience. But Kaleds had evolved to function on emotions, unlike Davros' proposed genetically altered race which would be designed without them and, bereft of everything which had made him human, the young man had become a vegetable which had had to be terminated.

Under ideal conditions, Davros would have tempered his methods from what he'd learned by his earlier mistake but he could not afford the luxury of trial and error. Greber was now barely capable of performing such delicate surgery and with time running out he'd had no choice but to resort to cruder forms of conditioning. This latest hero would be moulded by a combination of drugs and the pain/pleasure principle, the latter needing nothing more drastic than a simple device implanted in the brain.

This preliminary stage was nearly completed and the next step would take place as soon as the boy had recovered sufficiently to permit it. The rest depended on his strength of will but he would surrender in the end, or die. Davros sincerely hoped that he wouldn't do the latter.

\-------

The nursing orderlies who tended Nyder were careful to know nothing more than what was absolutely necessary to their work because heads were safer that way in the world of the Bunker. If Davros said that the boy had to be kept sedated because of the delicate surgery he'd undergone then that was good enough as far as they were concerned. Nyder, therefore, spent the greater part of his nights and days as an empty shell, giving nothing away concerning his personality to those who had routine contact with him. The only times he surfaced into near wakefulness were when Davros and Greber visited him in private on the grounds that they were checking his progress and running tests but these were vague, dream-like states where a relentless voice demanded that he relinquish his will to a dimly perceived presence which punished his resistance with soul shattering torments and rewarded compliance with ecstasy. He tried to fight but his heart was never really in it and Davros was gratified to discover that his latest subject seemed almost willing to be moulded into what he required.

Nyder was never conscious of the reasons for his surrender but they were many and compelling. A future in the warm haven of the Bunker with adequate food and a change of status was near enough to his dreams of an utopian existence to be an irresistible proposition and what little he possessed of personal integrity was soon smothered by the thought of what he had to gain. He was sick of the war but mainly in relation to himself risking his neck in the trenches and his hatred of the Elite had been born of his being denied their privileges. Now that he could make that transition from the ranks he had little compunction in doing so, especially as the sole alternative to his past existence was one which he'd been too afraid to take. Even relinquishing his will wasn't too high a price to pay as his life had been lived by rules and regulations and he'd never known what it was like to make his own decisions other than within the framework of orders which called for initiative from a Patrol Leader. There was so little worth fighting for as far as he was concerned that it just wasn't worth the pain and effort when surrender offered him everything he'd ever wanted. And besides, he was far too bemused by sedatives to wonder if the rewards would indeed be forthcoming if he gave in one last time.

\------

When Nyder was finally allowed to regain full consciousness he was basically the same person but with loyalties he'd never possessed before. He didn't question his newly acquired devotion because he remembered nothing of Davros' visits other than what the Supreme Commander had intended. As far as Nyder was concerned, Davros had given him personal care and attention and for someone who had known little enough of either, it seemed only natural to feel gratitude and an eagerness to serve in return.

Nyder's recovery was rapid after that. His eyes had been repaired by surgery to a functioning level and the rest was taken care of by the very old fashioned remedy of glasses due to his being allergic to contact lenses. He felt very self-conscious in them at first until one of the nursing staff told him that they would give him a look of distinction in the Bunker and identify him as the hero he was. He wasn't entirely sure about the prospect as he'd spent a lifetime trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible but on the other hand, he'd never have been made to feel important before so the thought of being instantly recognisable from now on didn't really fill him with horror.

He was puzzled by all this talk of his being a hero, though. Everyone said that he was one and he'd even heard the story of how he'd come to earn the honour but the entire incident remained a complete blank. All he could remember was running away as fast as his legs would carry him and, and as the days passed, it became obvious that the events of those few minutes in which his courage had put his comrades to shame had been wiped out by concussion. If it hadn't been for his damaged eyes and scars he would have found it impossible to believe that anything had happened at all.

Luckily his face had escaped the worst of it as there would be little, if anything, to show once the cuts and grazes had healed properly but the rest of him would always bear the marks of his ordeal.

Davros wasn't entirely pleased with this outcome but was mollified by the knowledge that few would know what was concealed by Nyder's uniform, especially if he were made to wear gloves at all times when in public; the Supreme Commander had turned his own mutilations to his advantage by playing on the sympathy and pity of the Kaled people and had no wish for a future rival at his side who could also display proof of having suffered. Nyder, unaware that the way he looked was important to anyone but himself, was simply relieved that he wasn't going to cause people to shudder every time they saw him. Having no concept of competing with other men for girls' favours, he'd never had occasion to wonder if he was attractive but this hasn't stopped him from worrying about his future appearance. Combatants who'd survived having half their faces blown away were few and far between so he hadn't seen so many hideous mutilations that he'd come to regard such a fate as just one more inconvenience in the struggle for survival.

\-------

It was decided to present Nyder with his Hero's First Class decoration at the next passing out parade to give the Kaled people a greater sense of occasion. He was petrified at the thought appearing on televid and would almost rather have faced another Thal tank but there was no way he could get out of it. Davros had not only ordered it but would be conducting the ceremony himself as Supreme Commander and, revering his ultimate superior as he did, Nyder was prepared to do anything to please even if it meant being a celebrity. The thought that the girl from the Leave Sector would be watching along with everybody else didn't even cross his mind let alone provide a shred of consolation; she'd become so vague a memory as an individual that his infatuation had been with a symbol rather than a person and there had been other girls since he'd left the Medical Section. With Bunker personnel restricted in their movements for security reasons the complex had its own Auxiliary Centre which was staffed by the pick of the girls from the Citizen Class. There was no way that a hazy recollection could compete with reality and so it was inevitable that he'd soon forgotten that she'd existed.

\-----

Nyder's ordeal proved to be nowhere near as bad as he'd anticipated. All he had to do was stand to attention while Davros' aide, acting as his superior's hands, pinned at the medal on him and then salute smartly before the Supreme Commander made a suitably uplifting speech for the benefit of the Dome's inhabitants. This was very embarrassing because all the sentiments expressed on the subject of going out to perform great deeds for the Kaled cause were focused on him as an example of someone who'd actually done so, but standing before a camera wasn't as intimidating as being physically present in front of a crowd so he didn't really feel as if thousands of eyes were staring at him.

He could have given the people some indication of the truth - the initial surprise caused by a sudden vehement protest from the background would have allowed him time to say that Davros was lying and it wasn't a glorious out there at all. But he didn't. Davros had to be right simply because he was Davros and if the war didn't seem such a worthy cause in the trenches it could only be because the men out there had a limited perspective, unlike the Supreme Commander. Besides, Nyder had no desire to exchange his comfortable future for the dubious privilege of being a 'personal instructor' for the next Year Group.

He thought of the living hell that the dedicated young boys swearing their Oath of Allegiance were going to find outside the Dome and then dismissed it from his mind. It was all in the past as far as he was concerned and nothing he could say would stop the inevitable anyway, so why sacrifice everything in a vain attempt to warn them?

They would find out for themselves. Tomorrow.

THE END


End file.
